


An Extra Pair Of Hands

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [17]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/F/M, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9320156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Really, it was all part of a carefully-planned science experiment: discovering the Doctor's ultimate sexual fantasy, for purposes of alien-human sociological research. (Or so Clara was telling herself, in an attempt to justify the whole affair.) Pity she'd overlooked "sexually attracted to control freaks" as a factor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xXdreameaterXx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/gifts).



> For [Chrissi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/pseuds/xXdreameaterXx), who prompted:  
>  _Clara asking the Doctor what he'd really like to try in the bedroom, and he refuses to tell her for ages, so she snoops around a bit to figure out what he's into... in the end it turns out he'd like a threesome with Bonnie._
> 
> I'm not sorry.

Clara rolled out of bed and cast her gaze down to the sleeping Time Lord that was sprawled across the space she had recently vacated, arms akimbo and mouth slightly open as he snored with aplomb. When this arrangement had been suggested, he’d loudly insisted he didn’t need to sleep, but she’d only arched an eyebrow and approached the matter with a sense of scientific curiosity, discovering that his _off_ switch was somewhere beside his _on_ switch. Now… well, the spread-eagling she could live with. The snoring, on the other hand, was a problem. 

She poked him in the stomach and he grumbled in his sleep, curling over onto his side and away from her probing fingers. The snoring ceased for one wonderful moment, but then the gravelly noise recommenced and Clara groaned. 

“You’re a pain in the arse,” she told his sleeping form with sincerity. “How do you even have the energy to snore? You should be a boneless, well-fucked mess. You shouldn’t be snoring. You should look like a log right now. You know… motionless, and _silent._ ” 

Unsurprisingly, there was no response. Other than the snoring. 

“God alone knows I did most of the work,” Clara continued resolutely, knowing she was being petty but enjoying the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. “As _usual_. Considering you’ve had two thousand years of experience, I was expecting _some_ variety.” 

“Mmmf.” 

“If you’re actually awake then please know that I think you’re a prat, but thanks for the sex. Should you want me, I’ll be in your room. You know: where you aren’t. And where the snoring isn’t.” 

“Nope,” he mumbled, rolling towards the sound of her voice and reaching out with one hand. “Clara.” 

“You’re a prat.”

“Staaaaaaaaay.”

“ _Such_ a prat,” she reiterated, rolling her eyes but getting back into bed beside him nonetheless, grinning as he nuzzled his head into her boobs. “ _My_ prat, though.” 

“Mmm,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing a sleepy kiss to her sternum. “G’sleep.” 

“You’re crushing my-” she began, before realising he was no longer snoring and resigning herself to losing circulation in her chest if it meant a good night’s sleep. “Night, Doctor Idiot.”

“Na night, m’Clara.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” she said the next morning, surveying the Doctor over her mug of tea and considering how best to address the situation, before settling on the direct approach. “You need to do something about the snoring problem.” 

“I do not have a snoring problem.” 

“Yes, you do,” she scowled. “It’s starting to ruin our sex life.” 

The Time Lord turned a violent shade of maroon. 

“For the love of god,” Clara muttered, rolling her eyes at his prepubescent response to the word. “You’re over two thousand years old. Stop going that colour when I say the word ‘sex’.” 

“It’s a weird word.” 

“ _You’re_ weird, and I’m not complaining.” 

“You _just_ complained about my snoring.” 

“Yeah, well, compared to some of the weird shit you do, that’s… tolerable. If I put a pillow over my head.” 

“You know, I generally like my girlfriends not-dead.” 

“Am I your girlfriend now?” Clara asked in stupefaction, taken aback by his casual use of the word. It was a development, certainly, but not one she was likely to protest about. “Is that a thing?” 

“Companion. I meant to say companion.”

“Sure you did. Nice Freudian slip. Stop evading the question.” 

“I mean. You. Urm,” he went a darker shade of crimson and dropped the teaspoon he was heaping sugar into his tea with. “Yes? I suppose? If you’d. You know. Like to be. If you’ll have me.”

“You’re a prat.” 

“You know, you tell me that a lot and it’s really quite rude given how much you enjoyed last night.” 

“How do you know I enjoyed it?” 

“Touch telepath,” he reminded her in a flat tone, then winked at her in a most uncharacteristic manner. “Your brain was leaking.” 

“Don’t even think about-” 

“…and it wasn’t the only thing.” 

“Oh my actual god,” Clara’s eyes widened and she bit back a snort of derision. “How can you blush at the word ‘sex’ but then make lewd jokes?” 

“I’m a walking contradiction, Clara.” 

“No, you’re a walking dick.” 

“Thanks,” he said drily, raising an eyebrow in mock affront. “Nice to know I’m considered as a holistic being. Do feel free to continue reducing me to my genitalia.” 

“You know I enjoy spending time with you as a person, stop whining. Just not when you’re snoring.”

“Well then, you’ll have to work harder to tire me out, won’t you?”

“Great. Could I please have more of a clue than that? I mean, what kind of shit are you into?” 

“Spoilers.” 

“Do _not_ quote your wife at me while I’m discussing your kinks.” 

“Well, it is a spoiler.” 

“You do know sex is supposed to be about communication, right?”

“Really? I thought it was about the pursuit of sexual fulfilment and-slash-or reproductive purposes.”

“You are _such_ an alien,” Clara groaned at his lack of cooperation. “Come on. Clue.” 

“Nope.” 

“Are you going to make me work for this?” 

“Well, you seemed to enjoy working for it last night.” 

“You are impossible,” she threw a tea towel at his head, frustrated at his evasiveness. “Completely impossible.” 

“Nah,” he gave her a wicked look. “That’d be you, and your tolerance for my snoring.” 

“I have mentioned I hate you, right?” 

“Several times.”

 

* * *

 

The next time they found themselves pressed together in a dark cupboard, listening to the sound of too-many feet prowling past them, Clara looked up at the Doctor as she chewed her lip, trying to come up with a plan that involved them evading capture and making it back to the TARDIS mostly unharmed. 

“Oh no,” he began in a whisper, recoiling from her as much as he was able. Which was admittedly not much – it was not a particularly spacious cupboard. “I know that look.” 

“What look?”

“The one you’re doing.”

“It’s my clever look.” 

“It’s…” he went silent, his eyes taking on a curious expression. “Nice.” 

Clara narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, disconcerted by his use of the adjective. “’Nice’?” she asked, her tone dangerous. “Normally you hate this look. Normally this look is used, then you save the day and give me a ten-minute lecture about being a control freak.” 

“I’m not adverse to you being a control freak, Clara,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes in dismissal of her suggestion. “You usually just tend to pick your moments. And not very well, I must say.” 

“You hate me being a control freak,” she pouted in a way that she knew was childish, but found she didn’t care. “You always complain about it.” 

“Not always!” 

“Usually.”

“Well, it’s become… tolerable,” he muttered, looking down at the floor and shifting slightly from foot to foot. “As you’ve grown on me.” 

Clara’s eyes went wide, and she looked from his face to the crotch of his trousers then back to his face. “Oh. My. God.”

“Shut up.” 

“You seriously get off on me being a control freak? You are the world’s most clichéd Time Lord. Superior alien physiology, my arse.” 

“Now is not the time-” 

“You are just…” she giggled, enjoying watching him squirm with embarrassment. “Unbelievable.” She gave him a stern look that warned him not to protest, then reached for his belt buckle and undid it in one swift moment. 

“Clara, it’s probably just… adrenaline.” 

“You’re a great lover, you know,” she mused, kissing him quickly and then allowing her lips to drift south and brush against his collar. “And a great boyfriend.” 

“Clara, this is really not the time to…” 

“But you know what you’re not?”

“A great one for semi-public sex that might lead to our sudden death?” 

“A very good liar. Now, shut up, I reckon we’ve got a good ten minutes before we need to move.” 

“Yes boss.”

 

* * *

 

Control freak. Right. She could absolutely do control freak. Admittedly it took a few Google searches, and a few hours of wandering around adult-oriented websites that she immediately deleted from her browser history, but she could definitely do control freak. If not all the time, she could at least give it a try, and maybe then he would be tired enough to stop snoring for longer than five seconds and she might get some sleep for the first time in what felt like weeks. 

Of course, she wasn’t one to do things by halves. She made a spreadsheet and hid it deep in the recesses of her hard-drive; an itemised checklist of things she’d read online, alongside a neatly colour-coordinated reaction scale. Sex as science. She _would_ work out how to best press his buttons, and she _would_ reduce him to such a well-fucked mess that he would be dead to the world before she could even get off him. It was all just a matter of trial and error.

The first trial – as she privately called it – was an irrefutable failure. He fell apart within minutes, and she was left sat on her haunches at the end of the bed, scowling at him with a distinct lack of sympathy. She entertained the notion of leaving in the handcuffs, watched him whimper, and then thought _fuck it,_ leaving him spread-eagled and attached to the headboard as she made them both a cup of tea. When she returned to the bedroom, he was looking up at her with a kind of gratitude that was _almost_ endearing in its sincerity, which she told his as she released his arms and called him a prat.

He still snored. 

The second attempt was moderately more successful. She still didn’t get off, but he seemed pathetically grateful for her attempts at catering to his distinctly bizarre – but admittedly useful – kink of her being in control of him. Not that he needed to be grateful, she told herself with self-deprecation, when it was something that came naturally to her. And not that he needed to be grateful for her indulging him – it was pretty much all she did with her free time. Really, the entire business was a prolonged science experiment, although she tried to banish that thought when he was touching her. She did, however, make a mental note to nick a lab coat from Coal Hill – a thought he picked up on with a whimper, tugging at his bonds as he did so. 

He still snored. 

By the end of the tenth experiment, she was no longer subtle in her checklist-based, tick-box approach to the whole affair. She squinted down at him as she knelt at his side, taking her hand away from his cock and adopting a tried-and-tested teacher stance, her hands on her hips and her face set in a stern expression. “You’re not telling me something.” 

“Urm.” 

“You’re seriously not. You’re getting off on this, but you want more. I’m not an idiot, I know when you’re holding back.” 

“Clara, please-”

“Nope, you’re not getting anything else until you tell me.” 

“You know I can just resolve this issue myself, right?” 

“Oh, please,” she rolled her eyes at the insinuation. “You’re too self-conscious.” 

“Clara…” 

“Just _tell_ me,” she snapped, but he only scowled at her in response. “Please.” 

“No.”

“Fine,” she got up and made for the door, swaying her hips a _touch_ more than was necessary as she did so, in order to provide an optimum image of her retreating arse. “Enjoy your wank.” 

“I hate you,” he called, his tone bitter. “Turnabout. My go to say it. It’s only fair.”

“Arsehole.”

 

* * *

 

Clara looked down at the phone in her hand and mulled over what she was about to do. On the one hand, it was a complete betrayal of trust to go through it. On the other, it seemed easier than trying to extract information from the increasingly irascible Time Lord who prowled around the TARDIS in a perpetual state of terse sexual frustration. 

She took a deep breath and clicked the home button of the phone, feeling only momentarily perplexed when it prompted her for a passcode. That was easy; he was a sentimental old sod. _2311._ Her birthday. 

His home screen was a photo of the two of them, and she grinned, feeling her hostility and irritation wane fractionally in the face of such a simplistic yet romantic gesture. As she stared down at the phone, wondering where to begin, a notification popped up and she opened the phone app, her eyes widening in shock as she scrolled through his recent call history. 

_Bonnie-slash-Osgood: new voicemail._

_Bonnie-slash-Osgood (01:34:23)_

_Bonnie-slash-Osgood. (02:27:12)_

_Bonnie-slash-Osgood. (2 missed calls)_

_Bonnie-slash-Osgood. (00:57:11)_

Determined to avert her attention before her temper got the better of her and she went to deck him where he stood, she opened his internet browser and checked his history, mentally recoiling at what she found and concentrating on clicking through menus to allay her trepidation, raising her eyebrows higher with each discovery. 

“Right,” she muttered under her breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. “He is definitely in trouble.”

She made her way to what was undoubtedly his most probable location, entering his workshop and closing the door behind her to prevent him from attempting to flee. 

“Doctor?” she called, and his head appeared from around the edge of a shelving unit, a pair of goggles clamped to his face. “Can we chat?”

“You look angry.” 

“I refuse to confirm or deny anything. Come here. Goggles off. Now.” 

“Are we going to have sex?” 

“No.” 

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so bloody crestfallen, you arsehole, I know all about your little secret.”

“What little-” she held up his phone, and his face fell. “Shit.” 

“Yeah. Shit.” 

He took the goggles off and approached her, guilt oozing from his very pores. Sinking into a rickety-looking armchair, he looked up at her with a contrite expression, resigning himself to the forthcoming argument. “So.” 

“You’re a total moron. I’m going to precede this entire conversation with that assertion.” 

“That’s… fair.” 

“Now that we’re clear on that: how long have you been having phone sex with Bonnie?”

“ _What_?!” he yelped, leaping up in shock and scurrying several feet backwards in the most clichéd display of surprise she’d ever witnessed. “What the… we haven’t…”

“Doctor. I’m not an idiot. I start denying you sex, you get a Pornhub account…” 

“About that…” 

“Not finished. You get a Pornhub account and start watching… well, frankly _weird_ shit about cuckolding. Cuckqueaning. Whatever the hell the lesbian version of that is. _That._ And then you start ringing her up…” 

“Clara, I have _not_ been having phone sex with Bonnie.” 

“You’re a shit liar.” 

“Clara, I’m not lying to you. OK, I watched some… stuff.” 

“You watched twenty-seven consecutive porn videos of women having sex with other women while their husbands watched. It wasn’t even particularly _good_ porn.” 

He raised an eyebrow in silent surprise. 

“What?” she said defensively, scowling back at him. “It wasn’t. Anyway. You watched those videos, and then you kept phoning her up…” 

“Not to have phone sex!” 

“To do what then?!” 

“Talk!” 

“About lesbian porn?” 

“No!” 

“About straight porn?” 

“Clara, _no_!” 

“About any other weird variant of porn?” she turned white as an awful possibility occurred to her. “Jesus Christ, please tell me you don’t have some weird alien porn account with tentacle-fucking videos on.” 

“I don’t have a weird alien porn account with tentacle-fucking videos on,” he assured her. “We just talk about… stuff. I don’t know. Her day, her time at UNIT. She’s not happy there, they pick on her.” 

“She _did_ murder their boss. And a lot of their colleagues.”

“Well, yeah, but she’s making an effort!”

“Clearly.” Clara rolled her eyes with a distinct lack of sympathy. “To get in your pants, mainly.”

“Clara, for goodness sake, will you please stop assuming that I’ve been having phone sex with Bonnie? Rassilon knows, chance would be a fine thing, but I wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean ‘chance would be a fine thing’?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him, and he balked slightly under the force of her gaze. “Do you _fancy_ her?” 

“Clara, she _is_ basically you.” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“Do you fancy her?” 

Clara scoffed. “Is the sky blue?”

“Technically it’s-” 

“Shut up. Yes. I…” the penny dropped, and she felt a dawning sense of comprehension. “Oh my _god._ You watch that porn stuff and you think about… me and her?” 

The Doctor turned a shade of crimson that matched his jacket, and cast his gaze down to the floor in mortification. “Maybe. Yes, OK?”

“So you want me and her to do that?” 

“Yes,” he mumbled, evidently wishing the ground would swallow him up. “But-” 

“With you?”

“Yeah.” 

“Is that your weird fantasy you didn’t want to tell me?” 

“Yeah,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “It’s a bit…”

“Embarrassing?” she smirked, and enjoyed the look of surprise on his face at the fact she hadn’t yet slapped him. “That you’d like to get involved with two of me… two bossy control freaks?” 

“Involved would be… good,” he confessed, looking back to the floor and turning an even darker shade of red. “I’d like that.” 

“Doctor,” Clara knelt down and tilted his chin up so that she could look him in the eye. “Is this your extremely roundabout way of saying you would like a threesome?” 

“Maybe,” he mumbled shyly, then clarified: “Yes. Yes, it is. Please don’t yell at me.” 

“Why would I yell at you?” 

“You _did_ tell me I was an idiot.”

“Yeah, but a) you’re my idiot, and b) you want to have a threesome with my double. Which means I get to have sex with myself. So really, you’re an idiot who fulfils my sexual fantasies, so I can’t actually complain.” 

“You mean…”

“It’s a yes from me.” 

“You’re the best girlfriend.”

“I know.”

* * *

 

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Bonnie asked, taking a sip from her coffee and then sighing as her glasses steamed up. In the interest of propriety, today she was in her Osgood form, which sadly involved far more layers and far less red lipstick than Clara would have liked.

“Well,” Clara began, feeling horribly like she was giving a business pitch. “Firstly, it would be helpful if you could change form.”

“We’re in Starbucks.” 

“Yes we are,” Clara reasoned. “A nice, _empty_ Starbucks.” 

“There’s a guy sat in the corner.” 

“He’s a Zygon,” the Doctor informed her. “I think. I’m about seventy percent sure.” 

“Good enough for me,” Bonnie concurred, setting her cup down. “What do you want me to be? I’m getting quite proficient at cats.”

“Can cats drink coffee?”

“No idea, want me to try?”

“No, that’s… fine,” Clara stammered, thrown by the thought that the person she was potentially about to shag could turn into a kitten. “Me. If you could be me, that would be good.”

“Sure.”

There was a soft _thwick_ and a second later, Clara was looking into her own eyes and blushing furiously. 

“Does this have anything to do with the phone conversations your boyfriend and I keep having?” Bonnie asked, her diction faultless. “He says he likes hearing my voice. Your voice. Whatever.” 

“Don’t _tell_ her that,” the Doctor groaned, putting his head in his hands. “Her egomania doesn’t need stroking.” 

“Other parts of me do,” Clara smirked. “And that’s where you come in.” 

“Ah.”

“If that’s not too weird.” 

“Right.” 

“I mean, if it’s not something you’d be interested in then that’s totally OK, it’s not like there aren’t a million copies of me scattered across time and space…” 

“No, no, no,” Bonnie interjected, adopting an innocent expression. “I just have one very important question.”

“Fire away.”

“Your place, or mine? Mine has the happy advantage of… well, a _room_. A very specific room.”

“Oh, Bonnie,” Clara’s smirk intensified as she looked between her boyfriend and her double. “We are going to get along just fine…”


End file.
